Day Forty-Seven: Checotah - Fort Smith, AR

That just might have been the worst night’s sleep of the trip so far, so that was fun. First of all, the water from the storm seeped into our tent that night, and second of all, a couple of the bevels (seams or whatever you want to call them) in my sleeping pad burst a few nights before, so there is one long, inflated hump down the middle of the sleeping pad. I’m not quite sure how to describe it other than by comparing it to sleeping on a balance beam. Not fun. So we woke half groggy and half relieved that the night was over, and it was finally time to dry out. We laid the tent and sleeping pads out in the sun to dry, and took our sad towels (which we foolishly left on the picnic table) to the dryer for a spin. While everything was airing out, we wandered back inside to the restaurant for breakfast. It was packed; there was an entire family reunion jammed into one room, fighting for syrup and ketchup, and stealing the waitress’ attention, making it difficult for us to ask a glass of water or more all-you-can-eat pancakes. The family name was Henry, we found this out by overhearing the waitress asking desperately, “Any more Henrys on their way? Is this the last table of Henrys?” One of the Henrys looked strikingly like Tim McGraw, minus the black leather cowboy hat, though I don’t doubt that he owns one. He chewed tobacco and spit into a tattered Mountain Dew can, then bantered with his wife about what to order for breakfast. Meanwhile, we sat peacefully near the corner, filling our bellies and checking the Doppler Radar to confirm our fears that another storm was coming.

The Henrys exited the restaurant to retreat to their blockade of RVs on the west side of the park, and we basked in a few minutes of silence and steaming coffee before walking back outside to pack up. Slater rolled up the tent while I fixed my flat tire from the day before, and on our way out, we filled up our water bottles with ice water from the restaurant kitchen. We rode out with half-dry gear that remained damp due to the insane humidity in the air. We rode 11 miles to the next town to stock up on snacks for the day. It was the small town of Checotah, OK, which is the hometown of Carrie Underwood (for any fans out there). We speculated that the country star must have funded the reconstruction of the high school, which was just north of the freeway; after all, it was the newest, shiniest building we’ve laid eyes on since Colorado. It looked starkly out of place, with clean walls two levels, as compared to the dingy corner stores and flat farms surrounding it. We gasped in cold air in a gas station just off the road and opted for healthy snacks like yogurt and fruit cups, all of which was expired by nearly three months. That’s what we get for trying to be healthy, eh? Other customers in the shop ordered fried taquitos and hot dogs from the front counter, and it was clear that no one had reached into the yogurt container for ages.

We continued riding until, for the third time in two days, I got ANOTHER flat tire. Luckily, it was right near an exit, so we pulled off the road to (again) a Love’s truckstop. We put off fixing the flat and instead walked into the store, where we found a Subway to cure our hangriness. On the wall opposite the front counter was a large flatscreen TV, which to our dismay, was showing an episode of Maury at an absolutely ridiculously loud volume. If you haven’t seen Maury, just equate it to Jerry Springer, and then you’ll understand exactly how we felt when our “restful” lunchtime was spent trying to drown out the noise of couples screaming at each other about baby mamas and mistresses and DNA tests. After lunch, we debated our next move: we could fix the flat and carry on, but I would be out of tubes and screwed if I got another flat. We didn’t want to risk being stranded in the middle of nowhere during a storm (and since I’d had three flats already, the chances were high), so we decided to actively search for a hitch down the road, which meant haggling pickup truck drivers and convincing them, “We promise we’re not axe murderers or anything.” Its funny, you know, we often question what’s scarier: being the hitchhiker or the hitchhikee?

Fortunately, we tracked down Jim. He had run into Burger King to pick up dinner, and Slater spotted him from afar (it’s an process, really: Is he alone? Is there space in the back cab? Does he look friendly? Would the bikes fit in the bed? What do the license plates say? Oklahoma? He’s probably not headed to Arkansas, then. Is it worth a try?) We chased him down as he returned to his pickup, and he surprisingly didn’t seem too alarmed. He wasn’t headed east, he said, but his expression was promising. “Give me one minute, let me call my wife. I’ll drop off dinner and come back to getcha.”

He was pretty much a saint; the man drove twenty minutes back home to drop off dinner for his wife, then returned to save us from the pouring down rain and drive us further down the road. While he was gone, we spent time talking to our parents on the phone and searching for options for places to stay in Forth Smith, AR, where we were headed that night. The storm came out of nowhere: one minute, we were standing under an awning in the beating down sun; the next, we were being pelted with heavy, splattering drops; and seconds later, we were blasted with hurricane-like winds and an ocean of rain that soaked every inch of our bodies and bikes with conviction. We sprinted to the entrance of the gas station, slipping and flailing, and threw open the door desperately, causing goods to fly off of the shelves and a stream of water to gush onto the floor. Person after person followed suit, and by the time it was all over, the room was covered in a thin layer of water. Jim came back to our rescue, and we ventured out into the storm to haul our bikes into the bed of his truck, and the three of us piled into the cab, soaking wet, but safe from the threatening world outside of the window.

We drove miles down the road and crossed into Arkansas, all the while listening to stories from Jim about his days in the Navy, how he met his wife, and the way his father had always encouraged him to help others in need. He was a humble man, full of laughter and appreciation for the good world we live in, and we were lucky to be “stuck” with him in his burgundy GMC for an afternoon of relief from the weather. When we got to Fort Smith, AR, he dropped us off at the front of the hotel that my mom had purchased to save us from the storm. We took pictures and swapped information, sure that we would be in contact, and we thanked him for his help, hoping that some day we could repay him for his generosity.

We trudged inside with soaking wet gear and smashed our bikes into the elevator, which took us up four floors, to a room that was surely not the one we had paid for, but much nicer, it seemed. We had a full kitchen, a couch, a lovely bathroom, and a huge, cushy, king-sized pillow of a bed. It was aaaahhhmazing, and we both took extensive showers before laying in bed for a ridiculous amount of time. It was nearly 9 o’clock, we realized, and OH NO! restaurants were going to close soon (God forbid we don’t get our dinner). Luckily, there was an Applebee’s about two miles down the road, and the hotel provided a complimentary shuttle within three miles up until 11 p.m. We ordered our food to-go, and drove to the restaurant in an uncomfortably large van, then were escorted awkwardly by the shuttle driver, whose job it was to open every door that we walked in and out of. Eyes were on us as we picked up our order with our driver, but we could have cared less, because unlike those peasants eating at the restaurant (joke), we got to take our dinner back to a big, cozy hotel room. We were back in no time, eating spicy wings and salads and chicken dishes in bed, wishing we had something to soothe our on-fire mouths. Slater fell asleep literally RIGHT after eating dinner (I’m not kidding, it’s like he took his last bite and the next blink turned into a coma), and I somehow stayed up until 1:30 and watched an episode of Mr. Robot not once, but twice, then drifted into my own food-induced slumber.